


an intentional evening of the odds

by thescrewtapedemos



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Pre-Slash, Supernatural Elements, kind of! sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 20:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16333235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: Mitch meets his Death on the walk home from his Psych 207 class.He’s not ready to die. He hasn’t even gotten started bringing the snapback back.





	an intentional evening of the odds

**Author's Note:**

> this is firmly dylan strome's fault for reasons i am incapable of fully articulating. thank you to moliver for beta
> 
> enjoy! xoxo

Mitch meets his Death on the walk home from his Psych 207 class when it’s dark out and the leaves are crunching in his path. 

His Death kind of reminds him of the professor for his Philosophy of Religion class last year. Young, but something about the eyes when he meets them that’s- too old. It’s the only real sign and otherwise Mitch couldn’t say how he knows it’s his Death waiting for him at the bus stop shelter he passes three times a week, but he knows. 

“This isn’t fair,” he says and leans against the cool metal of the shelter’s wall. 

“Death’s not supposed to be fair,” his Death counters. He’s painfully nondescript; about as tall as Mitch, about as heavy. Scruffy hair stuffed under a brown beanie, coat buttoned up sloppily, smudged glasses. Mitch never really envisioned his Death wearing Chuck Taylors but, he guesses, who’s gonna critique. “Just guaranteed.” 

“Bullshit,” Mitch complains. The street’s pretty much deserted, which he’s used to. Perils of night classes. It’s just him and his Death under a yellow street light. “I just got a pop quiz and now _you’re_ here.” 

“Sucks to suck,” his Death says, unsympathetically. 

The street light shines down through yellowing leaves. The air is snapping and cold, it’s well into autumn, and Mitch is absolutely not ready to die. He has midterms in a week. He hasn’t called his mom in a few days longer than he feels comfortable justifying. He hasn’t done the dishes yet and Auston gets pissy when he has to do them for him, and Mitch hasn’t hugged him yet today, and- and he wants to. He wants to hug Auston and call his mom and take his midterms. 

Mitch should probably be freaking out. He kind of maybe is, but deep down where it hardly really matters. He’s mostly got a caffeine headache and a sense of irritable indignation. 

“This is bullshit,” Mitch repeats. “I wanna appeal. How am I even supposed to die, there’s no one here. Was my coffee poisoned?” 

His Death tilts his head at him. 

“A game’s traditional,” he says at last. “Chess or something. Your choice.” 

“Lemme think about it,” Mitch says, and walks away because what’s his Death going to do? Stop him?

\--

Dylan is three months older than Mitch and he drives a bright blue Mini Cooper with a vanity plate that says ‘RACCOON’ because he's medically incapable of letting things go and back in eighth grade someone in Home Ec class told him his eye bags made him look like a raccoon.

There's a lot of reasons for Mitch to hate Dylan but that’s one of the more obnoxious. Dylan just doesn't let things go. 

“You look like shit,” he says, stepping into the rickety elevator with Mitch. It’s an _ancient_ elevator. Now that Mitch is thinking about death so much, it’s kind of amazing it hasn’t killed him already. 

“Fuck you very much,” Mitch says pleasantly. Dylan grins at him, to all appearances totally sincere. 

“Long day?” he asks amiably. Mitch snorts. It comes out a little bit hysterical. 

“Pop quiz in Psych,” he says, because explaining the rest of it is like- damn, dude. He has no idea how to even begin. Also, fuck Dylan Strome anyway. 

“Sucks,” Dylan says sympathetically. The elevator finally shudders to a halt and Mitch hastily gets off. He’s… probably gonna take the stairs next time. Dylan gets off with him. 

Another excellent reason to hate Dylan Strome is that they are neighbors. 

“See you later,” Mitch says grudgingly, and means _hope I see you never_ but Dylan just smiles at him and unlocks his front door and goes inside while Mitch is still fumbling his keys out. The douchebag.

\--

“I’m not a bad guy, you know,” his Death says, sitting next to him. Mitch doesn’t bother looking up from his textbook.

“Well, you won’t stop following me around,” he says and highlights a bolded term and then underlines the definition. “Which is pretty uncool by most standards.” 

“It’s my job,” his Death says. Mitch hazards a glance at him. 

He’s not wearing the beanie today but the coat is hanging from his shoulders and his glasses are still smudged and kind of gross. He needs a haircut. He’s holding a white paper cup with a little tea tag hanging from it in both hands. 

They’re sitting in the West Campus caf, and no one around them even looks up from their trays of mediocre burgers and reheated pizza at their conversation. At eight o’clock at night on a Wednesday there’s weirder shit going on than two dudes having a conversation. Mitch isn’t sure if he’s glad of that or not. 

“I don’t have to like it,” he retorts and turns back to his textbook. They’re doing their Pavlov unit in Psych and positive versus negative reinforcement is killing him to get straight. Not to, like, make a pun or whatever. 

“I’m stretching some notable rules, you know,” his Death says after a minute. “You issued an appeal, you have to choose a game pretty soon. A contest or something.” 

“I suck at chess,” Mitch says, because he really does. He’s never been all that good at thinking so many moves ahead. Much more of an in-the-moment guy, that’s him. 

His Death shrugs. 

“We could play Uno,” he says. Mitch squints at him. 

“Uno?” he asks. His Death looks sheepish, which, like. Mitch boggles that Death has the _ability_ to look sheepish. 

“I like Uno,” he says wistfully and sips his tea. 

Mitch decides after a moment of serious consideration that he isn’t going to think about any of that and turns back to his textbook. 

“Fuck off,” he says and turns the page, highlighter at the ready. “I have midterms. No way I can come up with something fair while I’m studying for midterms, do you want me to fail out?” 

“Suppose not,” his Death says, and gets up and wanders away. Mitch doesn’t watch him go. He really doesn’t want to know.

\--

Dylan’s smoking on the front steps when Mitch gets home. The pungent smell of clove cigarettes hangs around him in a cloud and he grins at Mitch when he sees him, bleary. He’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s dark enough the street lamps are on.

“Marnsy,” he calls and waves. Mitch sighs through his nose. He has another fucking headache; he’s been mainlining coffee all day and his psych textbooks are all printed way too tiny and Death is following him around asking if he wants to play a game like he’s staring in _Saw_. Also, he hates being called Marny. 

Another reason to hate Dylan: the nicknames. 

“Do not fucking call me that,” he retorts and starts fumbling through his pockets for the front door key. He comes up with two crumpled receipts, three dimes, and a paperclip by the time Dylan’s hand intrudes into his field of vision to unlock the door for him. 

“How’re you?” Dylan asks and follows Mitch inside. Mitch doesn’t answer until they’re standing at the bank of elevators and Mitch is weighing how likely the elevator is to murder him versus how his feet hurt and his head hurts and the stairwell always smells like cat pee. 

“Midterms,” he says shortly and Dylan makes a pained noise. 

“Fuck, man,” he says. The elevator doors open. Mitch steps inside. Dylan, of course, follows him. “That really sucks. How many?” 

“Three,” Mitch says and Dylan bobs a nod. He’s bouncing a little in place. Mitch wishes he wouldn’t because the elevator is kind of jolting with him and Mitch is a _little bit_ on edge about it. “Final group project in one of ‘em, too.” 

“Oh that blows,” Dylan says. “Group projects are ass.” 

He’s still bouncing. The elevator lurches as they pass the second floor. The light keeps flickering out of the corner of his eye and it’s drilling right into his brain. 

Mitch should have taken the stairs. 

“You don’t even know what I’m majoring in,” he snaps meanly and the door opens and he barrels out of the elevator before Dylan can say anything, even though it isn’t his floor.

\--

“This is kind of unexpected,” Auston says and Mitch grunts at him.

He’s elbow deep in the dishes because they’ve been bothering him and it _is_ his turn and if he’s going to die he’d rather without them on his conscience. Also, if he looks at another diagram of arm tendons tonight he’s going to lose his shit. 

“Seriously,” Auston continues. He’s leaning his hip against the counter and grinning and Mitch rolls his eyes at him. He loves Auston but like, seriously. 

“It’s my turn,” he says and pulls free a crusty pot of what might have been macaroni and cheese. 

“You never do the dishes,” Auston says but he nudges Mitch as he passes and doesn’t punch him when he flicks dirty water at him. A few minutes later there’s an episode of Community blaring from the TV and when Mitch is done with the dishes he’s got a whole evening of not studying ahead of him.

\--

Mitch steps out of his last midterm and breathes in real deep. The air is crisp with fall and stings in his nose just a bit, smells like old leaves and car exhaust. The sky is going deep purple-blue off towards West Campus and he spends a moment just looking.

The leaves are all going rich red and gold and brown. Someone’s strung fairy lights around the windows of a few of the offices in the English Department in the building across the walkway. There’s a group of freshmen clutching uni-branded water bottles and chattering excitedly to each other under the awning of the little campus store. 

His Death isn’t here but he’s thinking about it anyway. Thinking about what he’s going to do. 

He’s really not ready to die; he wants to graduate with a degree in sports medicine and maybe a minor in psychology and go work as an athletic trainer for the Toronto Maple Leafs. He’s going to develop some dope new methods for dealing with PCS, because his major thesis is about current concussion protocols and how they’re hot wet garbage and he’s got some _opinions_. He’s going to get a super hot boyfriend and a big dog, and travel to Europe every summer to see Rome or Greece or some shit. He’s going to rule the Toronto beer league scene. 

He’s not ready to die. He hasn’t even gotten started bringing the snapback back. 

His hands are cold so he stuffs them in his pockets and starts heading for home. Maybe, somehow, he’ll come up with a plan.

\--

Dylan’s smoking on the front steps again. Clove cigarettes, a battered Canadiens cap jammed over his messy hair. He’s not wearing his sunglasses this time and it makes the circles under his eyes even more obvious. When he sees Mitch coming he doesn’t smile and he doesn’t wave.

“Hey,” Mitch says and stops in front of him. Dylan stubs his cigarette out on the concrete. 

“Sports medicine,” he says, a total non sequitur, and Mitch blinks at him as he gets to his feet. He’s wearing a ratty old hoodie that looks like it can’t possibly be keeping him warm. 

“...What?” Mitch asks and Dylan snorts at him. His mouth is all quirked up like he’d be smiling if there was more amusement than bitterness on his face. 

“It’s what you’re majoring in,” Dylan says. “Dick.” 

“Oh,” Mitch says. “Oh, yeah, I. Fuck.” 

“You know, you were less of a douchebag in high school,” Dylan says and heads for the door. Mitch follows him helplessly and it’s a moment of hilarious déjà vu, waiting for him to unlock the door. The way his hoodie hangs over his hands makes them look almost delicate. “It’s not like you know what I’m majoring in. Or like, care. I can tell you don’t like me, you know.” 

Mitch jolts to a stop in the middle of the foyer. Dylan doesn’t stop, keeps heading for the elevators and doesn’t look back even though he has to have heard Mitch’s footsteps stop. Eventually Mitch stumbles back into motion. Dylan’s called the elevator but it hasn’t come yet and it leaves them standing next to each other, Dylan resolutely avoiding looking at him. 

“Something with math,” he says and Dylan finally looks at him, eyebrows raised. “You draw equations on your arms all the time. I… I’m not great at math, I don’t know what they are.” 

Dylan is quiet for a little while. The elevator is almost to them when he sighs through his nose. 

“Physics,” he says. “I’m majoring in physics.” 

“I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole,” Mitch says. The doors open and Dylan steps inside and then motions Mitch impatiently in after him. “I don’t… I don’t really dislike you. I’m just… an asshole, I guess.” 

“Kinda weird you’ve been paying attention to the shit I doodle on my arms,” Dylan says and Mitch scowls on instinct. He’s all off-balance, on the defensive, but Dylan doesn’t sound angry anymore. He never really had, just bitter, and Mitch feels… Mitch feels really shitty. 

“You’re hard not to pay attention to,” he says guiltily, and feels like he’s giving away too much even though he isn’t sure what exactly that is. 

“Y’know, I always thought you were pretty cute in high school,” Dylan says and he’s grinning when Mitch blinks at him, blindsided. It’s almost the same grin, shiteating and sly, too much of his weird quirky mouth and the bags under his eyes. A little bitter still, but better. A little better. 

The elevator doors open and Mitch realizes he hadn’t even been paying enough attention to get anxious about the sway of the elevator car; too absorbed by Dylan and this weird conversation. 

“Uh,” he says. His tongue feels clumsy. “Thank you.”

\--

“You any good at hockey?” he asks and his Death startles like he wasn’t expecting to be addressed first. He’s just sitting there outside Mitch’s Physio of Sport class like he thinks Mitch won’t notice him lurking. It’s broad daylight so Mitch isn’t sure who his Death thinks he’s fooling.

His Death is wearing the beanie again. He’s changed his shirt, sloppy jacket still hanging open over it. The Chuck Taylors are pristine. 

“It’s a team sport,” his Death says and climbs to his feet. “If you’re looking to challenge me in that. Not exactly traditional.” 

“Traditional,” Mitch says and rolls his eyes. When he starts walking his Death falls into step next to him. Their strides match perfectly which like, probably makes sense in some kind of poetic way. Mitch isn’t an English major, he doesn’t know. “Nah, just wondering if you wanted to play some shinny while I decide, y’know?” 

His Death just kind of looks at him for a minute. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says and follows Mitch when he heads home to get his skates.

\--

The rink is deserted when they get there and Mitch doesn’t comment, even though he’s never seen it with fewer than twenty other people battling for room on the ice. He just yanks on his old skates and jams his hat lower on his head, grips his old stick and slaps it against the boards once.

His Death has skates too, and a stick that looks older than Mitch’s. He stands uncertainly on them like he’s not sure what to make of the texture of rubber mats under his skates or the way his stick feels in his hand. His hair sticks out from under his brown beanie. The end of his nose is going red. 

“C’ _mon_ ,” Mitch says and gestures him out. His Death goes, stride steadying as he steps out onto the ice. 

He’s very good. 

Mitch is pretty good himself and he guesses that’s the point of this kind of thing, that they’re evenly matched. They scrabble in the corners and his Death has a slight advantage in stick handling but Mitch has the speed and plays a little dirtier and with no goalies they rack up twenty points apiece easy, leading one or two either way the whole time. 

He’s laughing when he pulls to a stop, knocking into the boards with a hollow bang. His Death sprays him with snow on the pass and knocks into the boards politely next to him. He’s smiling. His teeth are a little yellow and uneven. They’re tied, 22-22. 

“Too bad about,” Mitch says, means a lot more than he knows how to say, and his Death shrugs. 

“It’s rules,” he says. He sounds wistful. 

“Nah, I get it,” Mitch says. He does, even if the rules are bullshit. “I’ll… I’ll hit you with the decision tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow morning. Promise.” 

His Death looks at him but when Mitch drops a glove and and offers a hand to shake his Death pulls his glove off and takes it. His palm is cold but then, Mitch supposes, his own probably is too.

\--

Dylan’s not out on the front step and Mitch fishes his key out of his pocket and jogs up all three flights of stairs. He isn’t thinking about it too hard when he knocks on Dylan’s front door. He’s not thinking much of anything. His ears are buzzing but his heart is beating slowly.

McDavid answers the door, takes one look at him, and turns back into the apartment. 

“For you, Strome,” he calls, and wanders away. Mitch doesn’t really have time to contemplate how weird McDavid is before Dylan pops his head around the corner of the hallways to stare at him. 

“This is unexpected,” he says. 

“Can I bum a smoke?” Mitch asks for lack of something better to say. 

“Alright,” Dylan says and shrugs easily. “Lemme grab my coat.” 

Autumn is still wearing on and they sit out on the front step. The cement is cold through Mitch’s pants and he’s not dressed quite warmly enough, not after the cold of the rink and now this. It’s fully dark out. The street lights block out any stars, but Mitch leans back to look up at the sky anyway. 

Clove cigarettes taste marginally better than the only time he’d tried the regular ones, back in high school when he’d been trying to be cool. He still coughs on his first inhale. 

“Not to like, interrupt our moment or whatever this is,” Dylan says when half the cig is gone. “But you don’t smoke.” 

“No,” Mitch says, because it’s probably seriously obvious. “Maybe I just wanted to hang out.” 

Dylan’s grinning when Mitch glances over. 

“I don’t remember you being this much of a loser in high school,” he says but he sounds pleased. “Alright, we’re hanging out. What’s up?” 

“What do you wanna do when you grow up?” Mitch asks. 

It’s so cold he’s mostly stopped shivering and when he takes the cig back from Dylan it burns his hand a little. The trees are rustling and shedding their leaves. Dylan hums contemplatively. 

“Dunno,” he says at last. “Maybe get a dog. You?” 

“A dog would be dope. I wanna work with the Leafs,” Mitch says and blows a plume of smoke up to the sky. It hangs around for a while, shredding slowly in the faint breeze. 

“That’s pretty cool,” Dylan says and takes the cig gently from Mitch’s hand when he doesn’t offer it back quickly enough. “I can see you doing that.” 

It’s kind of nice. It’s nice to hear. Mitch finds himself smiling up at the sky. 

“If you met Death,” he says and Dylan’s already laughing. “And you had to win a game to live, what game would you pick?” 

“Damn, dude,” Dylan says. He’s definitely still laughing, and laughing at Mitch. “That’s some heavy shit. Are you reading off one of those fuckin’… conversation starter books? Decide to major in philosophy?” 

Mitch can’t help laughing along because yeah, it’s probably pretty weird, all the questions he’s asking. It’s still nice. 

“No, seriously,” he says. “What would you pick? Call of Duty or something?” 

“You’re so fucking weird, you know that?” Dylan says agreeably. He stubs out the cig and nudges Mitch with his elbow. “Never really thought about. Coin toss, I guess. Let’s head inside, it’s fucking cold.” 

Mitch gets to his feet and follows him through the motions of unlocking the front door and heading to call the old elevator. It’s already feeling a little like a habit. He’s kind of thinking it would be nice for it to be a habit. 

“Coin toss?” he asks. His shoulder is brushing against Dylan’s. He doesn’t really want to move it. 

“Sure,” Dylan says agreeably. “It’s Death, right? Fifty-fifty odds seem pretty good to me.”

\--

His Death is sitting at their rickety dining room table when he wakes up. Auston’s shuffling around him like it’s perfectly normal for him to be there, scratching at his hair and yawning and making himself a massive mug of coffee. His textbooks are stacked on the counter and there’s a granola bar on top and his eyes are barely open.

“G’morning,” he mumbles, and Mitch nods to him and waves to his Death and heads to the bathroom to shower. 

Auston’s gone by the time he gets out but his Death isn’t. He’s still sitting at the table. 

He’s not wearing the beanie or the jacket. It’s just him and his Chuck Taylors and his smudged glasses, the way his hair needs a cut. He’s holding a steaming cup of coffee, a Garfield mug Mitch recognizes from their own cabinets. Mitch sits down across from him and pulls out his phone. 

_love you_ , he mass-texts to Auston and his family and all his friends that he really gives a shit about. 

“You need to decide now,” his Death says. 

_love u 2 weirdo,_ Auston texts back. Mitch turns his phone over, screen-down. 

“Coin toss,” he says and digs out the quarter he’d stashed in his hoodie pocket and slaps it on the table. 

He’s rewarded by the only time he’s probably ever going to see Death look blindsided. 

“...Blind luck?” he asks and Mitch grins. 

“I’m feeling lucky,” he chirps and scoops up the coin again. His heart is going like crazy but it’s kind of weird. He doesn’t really feel scared at all. “Are you?”


End file.
